


“Grief Support for Dummies”

by Undercover_Royalty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Google knows all, Grieving, Jeopardy!, Peter hasnt been Spider-Man for very long, Pre-Canon, True Friendship, Uncle Ben’s Death (mentioned), wow this is a grab-bag, you know what that means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 20:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18185456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undercover_Royalty/pseuds/Undercover_Royalty
Summary: Maybe Ned Leeds didn’t know what it felt like, to watch someone you love die. But with nothing but determination and a couple of internet searches, he was ready to help his best friend, however he could.





	“Grief Support for Dummies”

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention I love these boys? 
> 
> Because I love these boys. 
> 
> Hence, this fic! This was written in a couple marathon sittings after I considered how Ned, as an outsider, would react to Peter loosing his uncle. In addition, I had some fun thinking up some of Ned’s backstory, so yay! 
> 
> All in all, expect a pinch or two of sadness that will hopefully be allieviated by the quality best-friends dynamic I’m trying to create, here. 
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading— and comments or critiques are always welcome!

Just like in all the movies, the call came in the evening. 

Ned and his mother were sitting on the couch, listening to Jeopardy re-runs and the constant drill of the rain outside. His little sisters, Gabby and Bella were already in bed. His mom was currently ahead in their running tally for the evening, but Ned was making a sharp comeback in the Nostalgic Toys category. He’d just correctly identified Lincoln Logs when his mom’s phone went off. She checked the caller ID with knitted eyebrows before holding it up to her ear as she strode from the room. 

“Hi, May...” 

Ned perked up, curiously, muting the show. May could only refer to May Parker, and if May Parker was calling, chances were, it was something about Peter. For a moment, Ned was concerned, knowing they were meant to spend the night at his place that weekend. He hoped Peter wasn’t sick again— just last month he’d gotten a bad bug right after their field trip to Oscorp. 

All the same, Ned conceded, he knew better than to listen in. If there was one thing his mom hated above all else, it was an eavesdropper (not that it had ever stopped him, or his sisters before). Besides, he knew he’d have an answer soon enough. May had no reason to call them unless it involved Peter or school. So, Ned waited a little longer, taking note of the answers for the next few questions— his mom had such a runaway lead, that he could justify being a little underhanded in regaining some points. 

When she finally did come back, her face ashen, Ned thought for an instant that she’d already picked up on his tactic. 

“I didn’t cheat!” he insisted, sharply, holding both hands up. 

For a moment, they stayed there, Alex Trebec droning on in the background. And then, to the teenager’s complete and utter shock, his mom’s face crumpled, slightly. She strode across the room and grabbed him in a tight hug, nearly bone-crushing in its intensity. In her suffocating embrace, Ned was hit with the sudden awareness that something was very, _very_ wrong. 

“Mom?” he managed to speak, just barely, “Mom, what happened?” 

She squeezed him just a little tighter before finally pulling back, briefly wiping a hand under one eye. 

“Oh, Ned...” she breathed out, slow, “Peter’s uncle Ben died, honey.” 

“What?”

That was truly all it was— a simple question. Because that couldn’t be right. Ned had been at Peter’s apartment just last week, working on an old circuit board his friend had unearthed from the back dumpster. They’d eaten, or at least attempted to eat, some of May’s rocklike cookies. And Ben had been there too, in his usual Mets baseball cap, letting them explain what they were trying to do over a takeout dinner, ruffling Peter’s hair every time he went past. He couldn’t be dead. Ned had just seen him. 

But that look in his mother’s eyes, that broken look, was one he’d seen before, too. So she couldn’t be lying, either. Abruptly, Ned felt as though a fist had closed around his throat. 

“Wh—what?” he repeated, hoarsely, “What... happened?” 

His mom’s voice was soft but measured, obviously trying to break things as gently as possible. It still stung, badly. 

“The police think he might’ve been mugged. Apparently the other man was armed.” 

“He was _shot_?” 

Ned’s voice squeaked on the last word, but he didn’t even care. Abruptly, a thought occurred to him, a thought so horrible that he couldn’t voice it. But it did make an icy chill run down his spine as he grabbed his mom’s hand. 

“Is Peter okay?” 

“He’s not hurt,” his mother said quickly, her face practically screaming sympathy as she stroked Ned’s hair back from his face, “but he... he made the 911 call, Ned. They found him at the scene.” 

Abruptly, just like a scene out of some twisted, horrible movie Ned could see his best friend on his knees, in the middle of the sidewalk, blood-soaked, a phone in his shaking hand. Ned couldn’t picture the body. 

His eyes started to sting. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” his mother whispered, gathering him close in her arms, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” 

Ned clung to her, numbly. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words. The first time had been just after his second-grade graduation, when he’d come home with his printer-paper diploma and polyester sash only to find all of his dad’s things missing. He hadn’t felt like this since that night, like his whole world had suddenly tilted over on its axis and shattered, right there. He hadn’t felt that terrible, terrible numbness, the shaking in his fingers that felt like it would never end. 

Peter was Ned’s only friend. As a heavy Filipino boy who’d sooner spend recess drawing spaceships rather than playing kickball, friends had usually been few and far between for him. He’d tried his best to accept it, finding solace in his favorite movies and video games. But all that had changed on the first day of sixth grade. He’d seen Peter right when he came in— his shirt, depicting the various expressions of a Storm Trooper, was a hard one to miss— and it had taken him nearly ten minutes to work up the courage to approach him at recess that afternoon. He’d been eating Death Star shaped mac and cheese in the Parker apartment by the end of the week. 

And now, Ben Parker was dead. 

And Peter, his best friend, had been there when it happened. 

So if Ned cried that night (to the point that he shook all over and felt like he’d never have enough oxygen, ever again), his saving grace came in the fact that only his mother was there to see it. 

-/- 

After three days, Peter was back at school. Ned, after a heavy consultation with Google, had concluded it would be best to treat him just like normal, but to stay alert for any signs that suggested his friend might want to talk things out. For his part, Peter didn’t talk much at all, only grousing at Ned between classes about how much he hated everyone staring at him. Apparently, some teachers had taken him aside to express concern for him— concern that Peter felt was wholly undeserved. Ned had nodded and empathized and done his best not to do the same. 

Things came to a head in their science class. Five minutes after Peter abruptly stood up and walked out with the hall pass, the class was disturbed by the sharp, repetitive sounds of something slamming against metal. Ms. Warren quickly moved to the door, and after a few seconds of deliberation, most of the class followed. Flash Thompson even pulled out his phone, likely hoping for footage of a fight. Ned squeezed past some of the others as he got that strange feeling again, an apprehensive feeling, like he knew what he might be walking into before he did. He ended up right behind Ms. Warren as she pushed the door open. 

Ned looked out and felt his heart sink. 

About halfway down the hall, his best friend stood facing the lockers, pummeling the metal doors with both fists. He looked solely focused, his red, shining eyes the only betrayer of his true feelings. 

Their door wasn’t the only one that had come open. As they watched, stricken, Mr. Harrington came flying from his classroom down the hall, firmly taking Peter’s shoulders and trying to pull him back. 

“Peter! Peter, stop it!” 

It was the wrong move. Before he could even grab him, Peter whirled around, knocking into the other teacher so hard that he fell flat on his back. 

“ _Leave me the hell alone!_ ” Peter shouted, the empty hallway sharply magnifying the words. 

“Goddamn.” whispered Flash Thompson, slowly lowering his phone and self-consciously tucking it back in his pocket. 

As he stood there watching, Ned’s late hours of scouting the Internet came back to him. He remembered an article discussing common grief reactions and methods to help with them. Though he doubted the writer would ever have imagined this exact situation, he remembered the central tenant of the article: communication. Ned could do communication. But one thing he couldn’t do was stand there and watch anymore. That was his best friend standing there, not some roadside attraction. Slowly, cautiously, he got closer— nobody stopped him. Mr. Harrington got back to his feet, and after a quick glance back at Ned, motioned him closer. 

“Hey, Peter.” Ned spoke, keeping his voice calm, “Harrington just wants to help. You really tore up your knuckles, man.” 

It was true. From where his hands rested, still slightly raised, Ned could see faint bruises and a few thin trails of blood. He’d evidently been lashing out with no regard for his own health. 

Peter’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and for a single instant, it was like he’d been caged and was looking for the best escape route. But then, he was looking past them, likely to the seas of confused faces peering out of the doorways, trying to make sense of what he’d become. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Ned offered, quietly, starting to walk down the hall. 

After a moment, Peter followed as he all but shrunk into himself again, passively trudging behind them to the office, most teachers finally regaining enough control to shut their doors and return to their lessons. 

The walk to the office was wordless. Peter and Ned quietly sat alongside each other as a nurse bandaged Peter’s knuckles on both hands, staying quiet even after Mr. Harrington called May and returned to his class. It was only in the next few minutes that Ned realized Peter was shaking, slightly. For a moment, he panicked again, before he remembered his Google searching mentioning something about temporary distraction. Ned was good at distraction— both personal and otherwise. That was something he could do. 

Very hesitantly, Ned reached over and put his hand on Peter’s back. After a second, the other boy turned to look at him. 

“Y-You don’t have to say anything. But I think I’m gonna talk.” Ned muttered, quietly, “Is... is that okay?” 

After a long moment, Peter turned back away and nodded, just barely. So, Ned talked. He talked about nothing at all, stupid things he’d noticed lately, like that woman who had her pet bird in her purse on the subway that morning, or the really bad street-performers he saw in Brooklyn over the weekend. 

Peter listened, hardly moving and hardly reacting but thank God he wasn’t crying, because Ned didn’t think either of them could handle that, yet. He talked until May got there and helped Peter up with nothing but a deep shared sympathy in her eyes. As they walked back towards the doors, Ned knew he’d done his best to help. But, as he turned to trudge back to class, he conceded that he didn’t feel particularly helpful at all. 

Back to the search bar, he supposed, pulling out his phone. 

-/- 

A month later, and things finally started to inch in a positive direction. Peter was back at school, and he was no longer responding in monosyllabic sentences. It was true he’d picked up a habit of skipping class more often, but Ned couldn’t blame him for that one— some of their classes were just plain boring. He quit a few clubs, too, but when Ned asked, Peter insisted it was just because he wanted to spend more time with May. The articles online were varied, here, with some saying that a bit of distance from old activities could be normal, and others warning it may be an early sign of depression. That had led down an entirely different rabbit hole, and eventually, Ned decided to just trust his friend was doing what was best for him, whatever that might be. Even if he didn’t see him nearly as often, now. 

Fortunately, not too long after he quit marching band, Peter and Ned had a sleepover. It was at Ned’s that time— and fortunately, the twins had been invited to their own sleepover for a girl in their class. In ways, things were almost normal. They ordered pizza and walked down to get a couple snacks from the bodega down the street. They finally managed to coerce Ned’s mom to let them rent the first Predator and hole up in his room. 

“If you boys have nightmares, don’t blame me!” she’d finally given in, and strode out to go and watch the evening’s Jeopardy. 

Sometimes, Ned thought that Peter might be pushing himself a little too hard. True, the original Predator wasn’t the scariest of movies— it was more of a joke than anything. But watching people being fake-murdered sitting right next to his friend, whom he knew had seen a murder for real, was not the most comfortable experience Ned had ever had. 

But, should he even start to suggest they turn it off, Peter shut him down. In the end, Ned couldn’t even properly enjoy that horrible effects as dummy-bodies were flung throughout the wilderness. It came to a close in particularly explosive fashion, the credits finally starting to crawl up the screen. 

“Well.” Peter commented, briefly, “That was... awful.” 

Ned laughed, weakly. 

“Sure was.” 

Peter had looked to him and smiled, briefly— his first of the night. 

Ned thought, maybe it hadn’t been that bad. Maybe he really was overthinking this. Peter was _ridiculously_ strong, as this whole horrible ordeal had proved, time and time over. And though he and Ned still lurked somewhere in the in-between, never having spoken at any length about what had happened, maybe he just needed more time. If he was starting to smile again, that had to mean something, right? It had to mean he was healing, at least a little. 

That thought carried him through the night, through construction on a new LEGO set and idle chatter about teachers they hated, girls they liked and work they didn’t want to do. It carried him all the way until they finally crawled to their respective bed and air mattress and clicked off the lights. 

Of course, it didn’t last. 

Ned woke up at some time in the early morning to a barrage of gasps and low whines coming from over the side of the bed. Curiously, he leaned over to click on the lamp, blinking the momentary stars away. Across the room, Peter was curled up on his side, arms squeezing his pillow in a death-grip. His breathing was quick, too quick, and his eyebrows were knitted tightly together. As Ned watched, he even tensed up further. 

Oh, no. 

“Peter?” Ned whispered, concernedly, “Hey, Peter, wake up, man.” 

When his friend didn’t answer, Ned felt throughly at a loss. He was just grabbing his phone to Google his way out of the situation when things abruptly got a whole lot worse, a whole lot faster. 

Peter moaned in his sleep and flipped over, but even that wasn’t enough to mask his slurred words from across the room. 

“No, no... _Ben_...” 

Ned felt knots of sympathy constricting around his chest. There was no time for Google this time— he was gonna have to wing it. God, if only he hadn’t suggested they watch that _stupid_ movie, would that have stopped this? Would that have stopped the nightmare plaguing his best friend, now practically writhing as Ned crossed the room and knelt at his side? He guessed he’d never know. 

Slowly, gingerly, he reached out and lightly touched Peter’s shoulder, mindful of the event with Mr. Harrington a few weeks back. However, instead of flinging him back onto his ass, Peter’s only response was to shoot straight up, eyes wide and unfocused as he heaved ragged breaths, a hand clutched in his t-shirt. 

Quickly, Ned clicked the light on, kneeling back down to Peter, after. 

“Peter, dude, are you okay?” 

In the next few seconds, Ned decided that that was the dumbest possible question he could’ve asked, but by then it was too late anyways. To be fair, he wasn’t even sure if Peter heard him or not, the other teen’s face finally turning to look at him, eyes still clouded with a foggy confusion. 

“N-Ned?” he rasped, looking nothing short of perplexed. 

“Hey man,” Ned answered, eyes wide, “are you alright?” 

Peter thought about it. He turned to look down at his borrowed blanket. 

After a long moment, without meeting Ned’s eyes, he shook his head no. 

“Okay.” Ned replies, voice sounding surer than he feels, “D’ya wanna talk about it?” 

Again, Peter shook his head no, but it was quicker that time. For a moment, Ned blanked on what he was supposed to do next, before he remembered another suggestion from the all-knowing Google. As it was the only thing he had to go on, he figured he might as well give it a shot. 

“Want a hug?” 

Somewhat awkwardly, Ned settled himself on the floor and uncrossed his arms from his chest, limply holding them in the weakest possible hug attempt he could muster. He was embarrassed almost immediately afterwards. God, what a stupid idea, how dumb was he? Offering his grieving friend a stupid _hug_ no _wonder_ he‘d never had many friends. 

Ned’s train of thoughts was abruptly and violently derailed as he suddenly felt another pair of arms come around his, as Peter turned himself into the embrace. He squeezed, tightly (and _ow_ , that actually kinda hurt), even lying his forehead against Ned’s shoulder. But, it had worked. There they were, half on the bedroom floor, hugging it out. 

‘ _Okay._ ’ Ned thought, as he started to feel that special detachment from reality that usually hit around two a.m, ‘ _This is fine._ ’

But then, something hot and wet began to soak through his sleep shirt. In the relative silence of his room, he began to hear a soft sniffling, something that would’ve easily masked itself underneath the traffic and air conditioning unless he’d noticed it. It was that, combined with the evident trembling of his friend’s shoulders that finally clued Ned in. 

...Peter was _crying_. 

‘ _Never mind, this is a disaster_.’ Ned thought, ‘ _Oh God, what the hell do I do?!_ ’

He didn’t want to say anything. No, that wouldn’t go over well. Besides, Ned suspected that if he started talking, then, he wouldn’t be able to stop and that would just make things even more awkward than they already were. He could always offer some different kind of comfort— but rubbing Peter’s back didn’t sound like the greatest idea either. For one thing, they were both kinda sweaty. For another, he had the strangest feeling that if he moved at all, Peter would just shatter apart into a billion pieces. Then again, it seemed he hardly needed Ned’s help for that. Over time, his sniffles had slowly morphed into quiet sobs, which sounded about a thousand times worse. 

Ned had never seen Peter cry before. _Ever._ Peter had seen _him_ cry, once— back in sixth grade, Flash Thompson had popped the arm off his Luke Skywalker action figure (a gift from his dad). Ned had managed to keep it together until they got to the bathroom, thank God, but after that, all bets were off. Peter had stood guard in front of his stall and later that day, they’d fixed it together. Seeing someone like that, a good, strong person sobbing his eyes out was almost harrowing in its intensity. 

Some unknown and irrelevant amount of time ticked by, but Peter did eventually stop crying. He’d gotten to the point where every breath had been a stuttering shudder, Ned wondering more than once if he’d need to get his mom. They sat in silence for a little while afterwards before Peter finally detached himself, wiping clumsily to clear away a sheen of tears and snot— and ugh, that was all over his shirt now, too, wasn’t it? Oh, well. He had bigger problems. 

“Th-thanks.” Peter finally croaked out, “I... needed that.” 

“No problem.” Ned replied, honestly, “Whatever you need, dude.” 

There was another long pause. Ned used it to regain feeling in his legs and briefly swap shirts. As he closed the dresser drawer, he finally heard Peter speak up again. 

“...It was my fault, Ned.” 

And, heavily sleep-deprived as he might’ve been, Ned still knew bullshit when he heard it. He crossed back over to sit crisscross. 

“No it wasn’t, Peter.” 

“It _was_.” Peter insisted, mournfully, “I didn’t do anything. I could’ve done something.” 

“Done what?” Ned asked, trying to keep his voice at an even cadence. 

For a moment, Peter looked on the verge of something, his red eyes shining under the ceiling light before he finally shook his head, the look dulling away to nothing. 

“I dunno.” 

Ned waited for a moment, but Peter didn’t add to his statement. Eventually, the other boy had to acquiesce and fell silent. They stayed there for a few more minutes. Ned thought Peter might have fallen asleep. But just as he was considering going back to his own bed, his friend’s voice came again. 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” Ned countered, quickly. 

Ned knew what it felt like to be sorry. He knew what it felt like to think something had been your fault, and yours alone. The number of nights he’d spent curled up with his mom, Gabby and Bella tucked in their cribs was a testament to that. At one point in his life, Ned had thought things were his fault, too. 

Maybe if he’d listened more, instead of talking so much. Maybe if he had more friends. Maybe if he’d just tried a little harder at soccer. Maybe then, he and his mom wouldn’t have had to come home that day to an inexplicably empty apartment. She wouldn’t have needed to rely so heavily on him to help raise his sisters. The court case wouldn’t have gotten as heated as it did— maybe it would have never happened. Ned would by lying to himself if he didn’t entertain some of those thoughts, even now. And looking at Peter, he knew that his best friend was going through something very similar. 

He couldn’t talk him out of those thoughts. But that didn’t mean he’d leave him alone with them. 

Ned ended up sleeping on the floor that night. He’d grabbed his own pillow, and Peter ended up sharing the blanket from the air mattress. By morning, they’d mostly kicked it off, splayed out in a thousand directions. They had gluten-free pancakes, and afterwards Peter awkwardly, but passively allowed for the returned Bella and Gabby to give him a makeover. 

With May and Ned’s mom making small chat in the living room, Peter and Ned quickly packed and straightened up his room. They’d just stepped out into the hall, Peter with his bag slung over one shoulder, when he paused, glancing sideways. 

“You’re the best, Ned.” 

Ned could’ve said a thousand things to that. His initial response was to deny it. Another was to express what having a friend, what having _Peter_ as his friend, genuinely meant to him. But he didn’t have words for that. And it wasn’t what his friend needed, anyway. So instead, he just smiled. 

“I know.” 

Peter positively beamed, before lightheartedly (or, ouch, maybe not _that_ lightheartedly) punching him in the shoulder as he scooted past. 

“Shut up.” he laughed. 

Ned shoved him back a little, then extended his hand. Peter clasped it back, as they reflexively went through their (admittedly elaborate) handshake. 

And if Peter wanted to pull him in for a hug, afterwards— even with residual glitter under his eyes and a few stray butterfly clips snared in his hair— well, Ned wouldn’t say a word about it.


End file.
